Thursday 31 May 2001

I have had one of the laziest, most unconstructive days in the history of the universe. 

It all started with having a horrible night, then waking up at some ungodly hour (like, 0430 hrs), so by 0800 I was ready to go back to bed. Thank miscellaneous pagan gods for being a lady of leisure ... I had a three hour nap, then gathered the strength to do a little work on the site here, followed by a little paperwork (well, I wrote lots of to do lists of jobs and paperwork, anyway), and some desultory tidying-up around the flat.

I think I'm getting a virus. I'm not sure if it's a tummy virus, because I feel all crampy and blah, or maybe it's just a hangover from the heavy cold I had while Sam was here (that was terribly romantic, let me tell you - the wonder is he still wanted to be engaged after all my snuffling and snorting and juicy coughing).

Either that or I'm still in the Recovery Stages. Of missing my boy, needing him around, expecting to hear his voice or feel him snuggle up to me at night. Or do that thing in the kitchen, when I'm trying to chop vegetables finely which leads only to distraction and sliced fingers ... 

Yep, it's definitely a virus. Yeah.

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I watched Tuesday night's episode of Buffy last night (I always tape it and watch it the following day because a) I can't stand the commercials and b) I can then watch it over and over again andagainand ... It was the one entitled I Was Made to Love You, which I really could have done without in my sniffly girly state, not to mention the whole Buffy-arrives-home-to-find-Joyce's-body thing. I swear, I can't cope with this. I have no idea what happens next because I've stopped reading all MBTV Updates and spoilers ... This cannot be good. And aaawwwww Spikey.

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Then I continued to fry my eyeballs by taking in The Commitments on video because I needed a dose of Irish accents and soul ... God I love those songs. Ever since I first saw that movie, I have wanted desperately to be a back-up singer in a little black dress. Sam (the darling liar) says I have the voice for it, but he'd be worried about me in the late night clubs and pubs, in his part of the world. I can see his point, too.

But arrrgggghhhhh I miss singing. And that really is the point; singing in the shower is not enough anymore, I need to get back into a good choir or group, and scream my tits off er. Any suggestions?

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And HOW COME no one told me about Douglas Adams? I had to hear about it from Karen of Thought Experiment, and was most distressed. Surely someone could have broken it to me gently? And wow, what weird alignment were the planets in, to see me get engaged and Douglas Adams die on the same day? Ah well, I guess "42" just about wraps up all the whys and wherefores ...

(When I castigated Dave for not telling me, he replied that he'd assumed I'd know; and suggested that the guests bring bowls of tulips and towels to my wedding. I want friendly whales and crates of Ol' Janx Spirit too.)

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